


A Mrs and Mrs White Wedding

by MuddlingAlong



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Multi Perspective, Wedding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-06 12:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15885945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuddlingAlong/pseuds/MuddlingAlong
Summary: Sliding in and out of Charity and Vanessa's wedding day from different perspectives





	1. I'll Be Good (for all of the times that I never could)

**Author's Note:**

> I keep having these ideas about little moments during their wedding day, and so I expanded a few of them into longer chapters.
> 
> This one is the shortest, there's a lot more left
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

Charity catches sight of her reflection in the mirror as they leave and almost doesn’t recognise herself. 

 

Her hair’s basically the same as every other day, save for a complicated little plait arrangement pulling the front strands of her hair away from her face that Debbie had done from a tutorial on YouTube, and even the suit isn’t a far cry away from her daily work wardrobe, the collar a bit smarter, the neckline a bit lower. Maybe it’s the jewellery that she never normally wears; a plain gold chain with a tiny heart pendant at her throat - a necklace Vanessa had given to her last Christmas; and thin gold hoop earrings borrowed from Chas. For someone so often referred to as a gold digger, she really doesn’t wear much jewellery, a defensive point that’s always stuck. Or perhaps the make up- Sarah had insisted on playing a role in the eyebrow process, and although she had felt apprehension at the sight of her granddaughter, an impressive selection of make up brushes brandished with an eager smile- she also couldn’t stand seeing that bottom lip pout in disappointment. _You old softie_ , she hears in Vanessa’s voice, and can’t really disagree.

 

It could well be the combination, the whole _look_. She rarely spends this much time on her appearance, rarely has the entire contingent of female Dingles prodding at her and reciting various contradictory pieces of advice that they all probably read in the same magazine.

 

She raises her eyebrows and the woman in the reflection raises them too. She laughs nervously, and the woman laughs back at her.

 

She looks so old, this woman in the mirror. Not old in a bad way, necessarily, though there’s new lines appearing every day that she’s had to stop studying so closely because it’s depressing, but in a sort of _grown_ up way. She looks sure of herself. Comfortable.

 

Then she realises that she is. _Comfortable. That’s_ what she doesn’t recognise. She’s comfortable, in her physical appearance, today anyway, in this house, in these clothes. With herself. With her past- ish. In the decisions that have led her to this moment, to this day. 

 

And in the same moment that she realises she is comfortable, she realises also that that doesn’t scare her. When she was younger, up until only a few years ago really, being comfortable meant being complacent, open to attack from any side: a feeling she avoided at all costs. The morning she woke up feeling safe and settled was the morning to start running again, on to the next thing, _they can’t find you if you don’t stop._

 

She’s not quite sure when she did stop running. _Probably when Vanessa showed up_ , she thinks, _in her bloody superhero cape and those big blue puppy dog eyes._

 

At the thought of Vanessa, the woman in the mirror smiles at her, this slow smile that starts out in the cool green depths of her eyes and warms them to glistening diamonds, pulling up the lines round her eyes and her mouth, until her lips are this wide, stretched dash of happy framing her teeth, that familiar gap between the front two reminding her that it’s _her_ smiling.

 

It’s impossible not to feel warmed by that smile. 

 

“Come on, Charity, you’re supposed to be there first this time, you can’t always leave ‘em waiting!” Chas’ screech storms up the path through the front door, and Charity rolls her eyes, huffs a silent, not suitable for the grandchildren, reply.

 

She looks back at herself one last time, checks her teeth for lipstick, fiddles with her collar unnecessarily, pats down stray hairs that aren’t actually stray. She feels a fizz of emotion, whatever they call butterflies: nerves, excitement, apprehension, _joy_ , fluttering up her spine and she shivers pleasantly, watches the woman in the mirror do the same.

 

“CHARITY, you’re already twenty minutes late, if you don’t get a shift on, someone else is gonna jump in and marry the poor cow.”

 

Today’s the day she marries Vanessa.


	2. She can kill with a smile (she can wound with her eyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find it SO hard to write Vanessa, and I'm still not 100% happy with this, but there's stuff in the next couple of parts that I'm really proud of so I wanted to get it out there
> 
> Hope you enjoy anyhow, thanks for leaving comments, it really does make my little heart warm

Isn’t it supposed to be a cliché, that _best day of your life_ nonsense? Weddings are supposed to be fun, but also stressful, right? The best man throws up on a guest, the bride arrives horrifically late, someone loses the rings, a distant relative is unforgivably offensive at the reception, and of course, something catastrophic has to happen to the dress. _But today_ , Vanessa thinks, leant against the bar, a finger twirling round the top of her champagne glass absentmindedly, _has been perfect._

 

She had been woken up at a ridiculous hour by Johnny jumping up and down all over her singing “my mummies are getting married this morning,” and despite her tiredness and aching bones his boundless enthusiasm had proved infectious, and she’d been found by a half-asleep Tracy jumping and dancing on the bed with as much excitement and energy her son, joining in with whatever tuneless, rhythmless song his little brain had created.

 

In the future she’ll spend lazy afternoon after lazy afternoon drifting through her memories of this day, so many tiny golden moments she wants to treasure; necking too much champagne with Leyla and Rhona and giggling helplessly as they tried to do up the ribbons at the back of her dress; catching sight of Tracy and Ross sneaking what they obviously thought was a secret snog behind the fridge, but really was actually not at all a surprise and merely a relief; Ryan turning up unexpectedly at her front door to give her some flowers, saying he’d wanted to give his third mother a hug before she married his second mother, which had sent her make up sliding down her face. Johnny borrowing her wedding ring outside the church and twisting it round his little thumb, asking her with the widest, most innocent expression whether he can marry Moses please? (The bit where he’d dropped it in a puddle and the ensuing two minutes of sheer panic she’d rather forget, though.)

 

But really, it’s Charity she wants to remember.

 

Since that first night in the cellar, or _The Awakening_ as Charity describes it in her cocky moments (all the time), Vanessa has known that Charity was the most magnetic, intriguing, beautiful woman she had ever met in her life. This view of her has only reached impossible higher heights since that first kiss, but today, today, she was something else.

 

She’d had no idea she was going to wear a suit, they’d decided to keep their outfits secret from each other, and so she’d expected a dress, maybe sleeveless, maybe just above the knee. But _that suit_. Vanessa had figured out she had a thing for women in suits, but she realised today that actually it’s just a thing for Charity in suits. The grey one she’d worn that first night will always be a personal favourite of hers, not that she’ll tell Charity that, unless she wants a lifetime of teasing and cocky remarks (which, she supposes, she has already signed up for). But this suit, a very very pale cream, almost white, _Charity Dingle in white_ , cut low, low enough to reveal a fair amount of skin underneath those two beauty marks that Vanessa finds so mesmerising, tight enough to keep her eyes trained on Charity’s behind, and white enough to make her look frustratingly angelic, is truly perfect. When she’d first seen the whole combination, stood next to Noah in a pale grey suit with his beautiful, genuine smile that is still rare enough to make her chest hurt, she had been incredibly grateful for her father’s strong grip on her arm, sure that her knees would have given way otherwise.

 

It’s not just the suit, though. There’s something different about Charity today, a deeper sense of calm and acceptance radiating from her, illuminating her. Vanessa watches her now, bouncing Johnny on her hip, who incidentally is staring into his new mother’s face, practically spellbound. _Gets it from his mother_ , she thinks, and can’t stop a chuckle escaping. 

 

She’s just perfect.

 

“I never thought she’d end up with a woman, like,” a voice from behind her interrupts her reverie and she tears her eyes away from her wife to see Zak, slumped against Sam further down the bar. 

 

“There were all that business with Zoe Tate, but I always thought that were just a phase.” With his gruff Yorkshire accent, Zak sounds so comfortably familiar, he could be any one of the men from her village who’d called out to her walking to and from school, no hint of sleaze, just friendly, fatherly concern. More concern than her real father had ever shown. Then she tunes into what he’s actually saying. “She always was a man-eater, was our Charity.” 

 

Vanessa closes her eyes, the In Defence of Charity Dingle speech ready at the tip of her tongue, as it always is when she hears people badmouth her girlfriend. _They just don’t understand_ , Vanessa says to herself. Charity had told her that this sort of talk would be rife today, her seventh wedding day, but it doesn’t make it any easier hearing it come from the mouth of her own family.

 

“And Vanessa don’t even have short hair,” Zak continues thickly, “but mebbe it makes sense if Charity’s the man in the relationship,” Vanessa has to turn away to hide her indignation. _I was the one who proposed!_ she thinks hotly, and _I’m the one who has to get rid of the spiders, and_ I’m _the big spoon._

 

Sam chirps up, “I just don’t get it though, what _is_ she?” He leans in closer to Zak and Vanessa has to crane her head to hear, “are they lesbians? Or- bi- whassit, you know, bi- menstrual?” 

 

At that, Vanessa, who had been utterly ready to educate her new uncle-in-law (great-uncle-in-law? Honorary father-in-law? Dingle-in-law?) on everything from gender roles in relationships to that wild concept of bisexuality, breathes all of her preachings out in a wide, helpless laugh, and makes a mental note to tell Charity that they should really be thinking about their bi-menstruality.

 

“Hey, wife,” she hears Charity’s voice cut through the melee as if she could sense her being talked about, feels familiar arms nestle round her middle and a chin tucked onto her shoulder.

 

Vanessa smiles, feels her insides glow, “hey, Mrs Woodfield.”

 

The arms round her waist clench in indignation, “oi, I thought you were going to be Mrs Dingle!”

 

Cocking her head in feigned consideration, “yeah, about that,” she spins in Charity’ arms and twirls her fingers into blonde curls, “I’m not sure how _Dingle_ I’m really feeling today, you know?” 

 

She nods over to Zak and Sam who are still heads deep in conversation. Vanessa thinks she overhears the word “confused,” and stiffens immediately, but it’s sort of impossible to be anything but blissfully happy in the arms of Charity Dingle.

 

In reality, when the time comes for actually changing their names, she’ll happily do away with Woodfield. The name never carried any specific meaning for her, shared only with her mother, who couldn’t even be bothered to come to the wedding, and an aunt she’s never met. But _Dingle_ is a name for a wide, sprawling family, full of history and personality and warmth. Even if there are a few- _questionable_ people with the name, it’s Charity’s. And that’s reason enough for anything. She’ll follow her wherever.

 

“You’ll be feeling very Dingle in a minute, babe, wait til the welly comes out,” Charity taunts. “I could tell them to just do one of the kiddies’ wellies if you like,” her eyes are full of an affectionate laughter which only irritates Vanessa, “you know, because you’re a bit-” she looks her up and down, half mocking, half appreciative.

 

Like Johnny when he’s accused of being smaller than Moses, she puffs out her chest, “Charity, I could take on ten wellies, and quicker than any of the so-called men in your family.”

 

Charity grins, can’t stop herself from kissing Vanessa’s furrowed eyebrows, “yeah, I’d keep that quiet if I were you, babe, Zak really would make you do that, you know.”

 

Vanessa huffs, “well he’s said some things this evening that I’m not especially fond of either, actually.”

 

“Like what?”

 

But she can’t quite bring herself to put a dampener on today though, not when it’s been so perfect. “I’ll tell you later. How was Johnny?”

 

Charity loosens one of her hands from Vanessa’s waist, brushes some stray hair from Vanessa’s face and tucks it back into the closest hair-grip, “yeah, he was- this is gorgeous by the way, babe, Tracy did a really good job,” the casual flattery makes Vanessa’s chest contract. “And Johnny was a bit sleepy, Rhona’s taken him and Moses home to bed. He asked me if he could marry Moses,” she snorts slightly, but is obviously just as in love with Johnny as he is with her.

 

“He asked me earlier, too! He said to me this morning, ‘Mummy, you’re marrying your best friend, why can’t I marry _my_ best friend?’” Charity tucks her bottom lip under her teeth, charmed.

 

“What did you say?”

 

Vanessa scoffs, “I didn’t really know what to say! Johnny, no you can’t marry Moses because a, he’s your brother, and b, you’re both four.” She brushes her hands underneath the collar of Charity’s jacket, nudges her fingers against her collarbones, “I couldn’t really argue with the best friend logic, though.”

 

Charity puts a hand on her chest on mock surprise and Vanessa immediately regrets everything as she gasps, her voice annoyingly high-pitched and flattered, “Vanessa, am I your best friend?”

 

“No, not any more,” she huffs, sticking out her bottom lip and folding her arms.

 

With a hummed smile and a fond gaze, Charity takes Vanessa’s arms and winds them round her own neck, pulling her closer by the waist. “Hey, Ness, I would be _honoured_ to be your best friend.” 

 

Vanessa huffs again, hanging loosely in Charity’s arms. She always manages to royally take the piss at the most inappropriate moments. So Vanessa is going to punish her for that bit longer, who cares if it’s their wedding day?

 

And Charity is apparently just as unwilling to let the joke go, “I always thought I was your third best friend, you know? I thought Rhona was your first best friend, and then Tracy.”

 

Vanessa fixes her with a sardonic eye, “you forgot Paddy.”

 

“ _Paddy?!_ ” Charity’s voice is so loud and so high-pitched that several people turn to look, including Paddy, red-faced and halfway through a cocktail sausage. 

 

Vanessa waves her hands at him in an attempt to reassure him, and he looks away, disgruntled. “Charity, you are dreadful,” but Charity’s face is full of amusement and Vanessa can’t help but be charmed.

 

She hangs, giggling, in Charity’s arms, swaying slightly to whatever godawful crooner Frank has requested. 

 

It’s this, _this feeling_ that she craves. They have their back and forth, their jibes and jokes, but it always comes back to this. A laugh and a kiss and a feeling of pure contentment.

 

Her hands wind into the hair at the back of Charity’s neck. “Are you happy?”

 

The smile that steals across Charity’s face is pure magic. Her voice is soft, almost reverent as she gazes into Vanessa’s face, “I couldn’t be happier.” 

 

Vanessa smiles back, matching her warmth and contentment, “me, neither.” She tips up her chin to kiss her wife, sweet and slow. It somehow feels new and even more heavenly now they’re   
married.

 

“Oi, put her down, Charity, there’s children watching!” Marlon seems to have had a few glasses of champagne too many, drawing more attention to himself than was ever on the newlyweds. Vanessa suspects that after a few months of shameless PDA at the beginning of their relationship, everyone just got used to their lack of constraint. After all, practically everyone in the village has now walked in on the two of them in a compromising position, it’s hardly front page news any more that they like a good snog.

 

Charity breaks from Vanessa’s lips just to shout, “piss off Marlon or I’ll sack you!” And then kisses her again.

 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the emotion, or the relief that nothing went wrong, but Vanessa suddenly feels her eyes fill with tears. She never wants this to end.

 

That’s the danger of loving someone this much. She realised that for the first time when Adam had taken Johnny. To love someone as hard and fiercely as she loves her son, as deeply and effortlessly as she loves Charity, you open yourself up to whole new worlds of pain. You build the house of your heart on the love of other people, which can feel solid and true, but really, people can leave.

 

The idea that a day might come when she can’t kiss these lips or feel this loved is abhorrent. It pulls her away from Charity’s lips with a furrowed expression.

 

“Babe?” Charity’s voice is full of concern.

 

Vanessa looks up into her eyes. “How is it that I miss you and yet you’re right here?”

 

She can see the surprise in Charity’s eyebrows, the affection in her bitten lip, the understanding in the green depths of her eyes. She’ll spend a lifetime reading this face.

 

“Probably because we’re not alone, babe.” Charity wiggles her eyebrows and squeezes Vanessa’s bum, doesn’t bother to lower her voice for “the things I’m going to do to you tonight..”

 

Vanessa can’t help the involuntary shiver, hopes she’ll never stop being helplessly attracted to Charity. But she doesn’t think that’s why she misses her.

 

She looks over her shoulder to see if anyone overheard, “you are awful, you,” but there’s not even the slightest hint of reprimand in her tone.

 

“You love it,” Charity flirts shamelessly, a wicked glint in her eye. “And,” she cups her upturned face with her hands, brushing gently at her cheekbones, “I love you, Mrs Dingle.” She says it so simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. And her smile chases away that fleeting melancholy that had pulled Vanessa away.

 

It fills her insides with a golden, warm feeling every time Charity says those words. The sort of feeling that makes you forget you ever felt any pain or cried any tears, because how could how could anything ever have been wrong with a world that has delivered this woman and her love to you?

 

Charity grins, plants a smacker of a kiss on Vanessa’s lips and then extricates herself from their embrace, “right, I’m just off to get some fresh air, babe, it’s a bit hot in here,” and she looks her up and down as if Vanessa were the reason for the heat.

 

Vanessa knows she’s going for a cigarette. The way her fingers are twitching and the way she’s not quite meeting Vanessa’s eyes tell her everything. She thinks Vanessa won’t be able to tell, she’ll chew gum and overcompensate by saying how fresh the air outside was, how green the trees. And when Charity eventually gives in and confesses, so loathe is she to keep secrets anymore, Vanessa will act surprised, and she’ll chastise her gently, but she won’t mind at all.

 

“Ok, love, don’t be too long,” Charity rolls her eyes affectionately, moves towards the door, “and don’t talk to strangers!”

 

Charity beams at her from the other side of the room. _That’s my wife_ , Vanessa thinks. 

 

_My wife._

 

She leans back against the bar contentedly. Someone has magically refilled her glass of champagne, and she sips at it slowly, lets the buzz of the room wash over her. All her family and friends are in this room, everyone she loves. And the most beautiful, intelligent, complicated, irritating, loving, crazy, perfect woman in the entire world has just promised to share her life with her, forever.

 

It has been a perfect day. How could it have been anything but?


	3. Time has told me (you're a rare, rare find)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another little snippet of Charity introspection
> 
> Title from Time Has Told Me - Nick Drake
> 
> Yes, it's soppy and sentimental and fluffy again, I am not even sorry

She’s managed to grab a moment to herself, snuck out to sit on the wall outside with a secret fag, tipsy enough not to care too much about her suit on the dusty brick.

 

It’s chilly now, the September evening closing in on her warm neck, goosebumps peeping out to meet it. She closes her eyes, drinks in the cool air.

 

As well as the physical sensations; her feet are throbbing and she can feel the beginnings of at least three blisters, her underarms are prickling uncomfortably from the bodily heat of the pub and her cheeks ache from smiling, everything’s a bit hazy. Apart from anything else, it’s been a really long day and she’s not had a minute to herself since half seven this morning, plus she’s had a good few glasses of champagne and downed a pint. (She had to, Marlon bet her that she didn’t still have it in her.) But it’s not tiredness or alcohol consumption that are making everything seem like it’s glowing, as if she were wearing rose-coloured glasses.

 

Today, she married Vanessa.

 

She’d watched her walk down the aisle, her slim floor length dress sweeping the floor, hair looped back loosely away from her face in a complicated sort of bun with three yellow flowers studded to the side, loose tendrils curling to her shoulders. 

 

Well, really, she’d watched her smile walk down the aisle, warm and helplessly wide, eyes bright and watery, something awfully _good_ shining out of her face. She’d watched her grip on her father’s arm tighten at the sight of Charity and had felt momentarily gratified, until “oi, Mum, you’re hurting me,” hissed into her ear, and she realised she herself was holding onto Noah’s arm just as fiercely. She’d watched her bottom lip tremble as she’d heard Charity’s vows, watched it practically shake away from her face as she’d read her own. She’d married her.

 

She stretches out the fingers of her left hand in front of her. Her trimmed nails a pale rose colour, her cigarette, dripping ash, held loosely between practiced, slender fingers and, the newest addition, a plain gold band circling her third finger. 

 

Her hand has carried gold before, and she’s used to running her thumb over the underside of a ring, to the routine of it being the last thing she takes off at night and the first thing she puts on in the morning. Used to strangers, on seeing it, treating her with that little bit more respect as if the notion of some vague Husband in the distance grants her the courtesy of being called Madam instead of Miss, of not having to feel an unwelcome hand at her elbow, her back, her thigh. Used to seeing a flash of something catch in the light and remembering she’s someone else’s.

 

But this ring feels different. It doesn’t weigh her down like the others did. A quiet yet sneaks into her mind. But she brushes it away, unable to imagine a time when Vanessa would ever feel anything like the others.

 

She admires her hand for a second, a smile playing across her face. There’s a tiny letter ‘V’ engraved on the inside, a ‘C’ on its twin. Vanessa had done it, hadn’t told Charity until last night when she’d suddenly thought that maybe Charity would think it tacky or be angry at not having been consulted, but Charity told her, truthfully, that she loved it. That she couldn’t think of anything more perfect. Then she joked about what else the ‘V’ could stand for, earned herself a punch on the arm and a kiss on the cheek. And a hushed joke about what the ‘C’ could stand for.

 

Thinking of it now, it’s like a little secret. Something just for the two of them. She can look at that ring on the third finger of her left hand and not feel suffocated, trapped, tied down for the rest of her life and _you belong to me._

 

She can look at this ring on the third finger of her left hand and think of Vanessa, who has made her believe for the first time in her life, that she is exactly enough just the way she is, and simultaneously, believe that she really could change. Who makes her feel undone and complete in the exact same second, who has heard her rage and cry and will still hold her at the end of the day and kiss her fingertips and stroke her hair, whom she loves, with a hunger so pure and earnest she didn’t think someone as broken as her could ever manage, who loves her the exact same way without ever asking for anything in return.

 

Or, she can look at this ring on the third finger of her left hand, and think of that one silly evening when they laughed about the letters ‘C’ and ‘V’ and that’s not quite so overwhelming.

 

 _Actually_ , she thinks, taking her cigarette between her lips, twists the ring once, twice round her finger, a little flutter of emotion vibrating in her chest, _it’s oddly perfect._


	4. Somewhere deep inside I know there's a lesson to be learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charity and Cain have a heart to heart outside the pub

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Silhouettes of You by Isaac Gracie 
> 
> I truly could not love Vanity more, but I watched Emmerdale in like 2011 because of Charity and Cain and their relationship. It's SO deep and complicated and just full of history and pain and love and this whole can't live with/out each other thing and I just- was fascinated by it. Don't get me wrong, I know he's behaved awfully in the past.  
> But this is a little tribute to them, I LOVED their scene at the trial, I kind of wish we'd seen more, I'm very interested in their friendship now, post the 2016 shit show, because I think they still mean a lot to each other.
> 
> Unconvinced by Cain's characterisation but I felt this needed his perspective
> 
> I hope you enjoy x
> 
> also p.s. I know that I write Charity to swear a lot, but I just think she does, and she would, if Emmerdale wasn't pre watershed - I hope you don't mind

“Alright?” 

 

Charity turns to look at him, eyebrows raised in a question he doesn’t quite know the answer to.

 

“It was hot in there,” he offers by way of an explanation as to his presence, and she nods slowly.

 

“Not seen you smoke for a while,” he comments, settling himself against the wall next to her and following her gaze up the street.

 

She takes a drag, takes her time over it before she deigns to answer, “just because you don’t see something, Cain, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”

 

He holds his hands up, puffs out a breath of air as if she’s scaring him, “alright, love, sorry I spoke.” He can feel her jaw tense next to him and feels guilty for winding her up, today of all days. She hates it when he overreacts. “Sorry,” he throws with a jerk of the head, even managing to meet her eyes.

 

With a sardonic stare, she watches him for a second before passing him the cigarette, which he accepts. “I won’t tell Moira if you don’t tell Ness,” her tone is conspiratorial, her smile almost suggestive, a shadow of her earlier law-breaking days crossing her eyes. It doesn’t really suit her, not anymore. 

 

He accepts, though, takes a drag, feels the smoke fill his lungs, remembers he hates it and coughs lightly, embarrassed.

 

She snorts at his cough, which he pointedly ignores and hands her back the cigarette without a word. He didn’t come out here to be laughed at. He’d have stayed inside with Belle and Matty if he’d wanted that. 

 

But it feels distantly familiar, sitting on this wall with Charity. Despite his definitely, _definitely_ not being _in_ love with her - Moira is inside with their sons and he feels a faint tug just being out here without her - he does still, probably always will, love Charity. He feels the same draw towards her now as he did aged nine, aged twenty three. She’s Debbie’s mother. They _know_ each other. Written into each others’ skin like scars. And he likes her, too, moody cow that she is. She sees their tangled family with the same healthy splash of cynicism as he does, and can be relied on for a laugh or a moment of levity in dire situations.

 

“You gave me my first ever fag, you did,” Charity says suddenly, and it’s like someone’s put the slide into a projector behind his head and he can see her standing in front of him, aged eleven, hair wild and eyes wilder, holding the cigarette between fingers and thumb like a challenge, determined not to let her fear or inexperience show. Through sheer stubbornness she’d managed to hold in the violent cough that shook her chest and spilled over her eyelashes, then shrugged, stalked off with a middle finger in the air at his “chicken.” He remembers he’d seen her with a group of older kids from school a couple of weeks later, and she’d lit her own cigarette and smoked it like she’d seen her dad do, flicked away the ash like she’d been doing it all her life, all innocence gone. 

 

“That was a long time ago,” he says sadly, and she murmurs in agreement. 

 

Sometimes, especially when they were together, he used to see that girl in Charity’s eyes. When they’d argue and he’d bring up her past, she’d stare at him in that exact same way, as if she were ten feet tall and made of enough willpower to burn a person to the ground. And then sometimes, afterwards, he’d see her chest shake, holding herself in.

 

Not anymore, though. Maybe he just isn’t around to see it anymore, but truthfully, he suspects it’s because lately, since she’s been with Vanessa, she’s not needed to feel like that. The last time he’d seen that look in her eyes had been outside the courthouse last year when they’d seen Bails and his wife arrive for the verdict, all expensive shoes and haughty noses stuck in the air. He’d turned to look at Charity and seen her staring straight at Bails, face unchanged but eyes blazing in a green storm, part fear, part fury. The ferocity of it had taken his breath away. And then he’d watched Vanessa take her hand gently, press a silent kiss into her shoulder, and Charity had turned her head away from them, whispered “I’m ok,” into Vanessa’s hair. 

 

And he'd watched the fire go out, as if the gas had been switched off.

 

He slips his hands beneath himself to rest under his back, thinking about what Moira will say at the dust stains on his new white shirt.

 

“It’s funny, you know,” she says, suddenly again, he thinks maybe it’s the alcohol spinning her brain out, “it’s the same house, isn’t it? It used to be our home.” She’s looking into the distance, at the pathway leading up to Tug Ghyll, and he follows her gaze. “And, apart from the wallpaper, it really is the same, Cain, that extra step outside the bathroom: still a complete pain. Though I’ve never tripped over it again, not once.”

 

“Finally figured it out, did you?” His voice is humourless, but not bitter.

 

“Well, maybe it’s because Vanessa actually _changes_ lightbulbs when they blow, doesn’t leave everyone else to scrabble around the landing in the dark, unlike some so-called _man_.”

 

Cain bristles internally. Always, always she’s known how to prod him in that sensitive spot, his masculinity, his _honour_. And always, always he’s risen to the bait. “Well, I had a full time job didn’t I? Never saw you in an apron playing domestic goddess, no, you were just pissing about on your lazy arse.”

 

“Excuse me! I was being a mother to the kids! And I did have a job actually, I was working for Carl at the time, if you can bring yourself to remember correctly,” her indignation is so familiar he feels like he’s back in that house again, they probably had this exact same argument over the exact same broken lightbulb a hundred times.

 

And they never did fix it.

 

He remembers the landing was permanently pitch black until once when Debbie was pregnant with Jack and had very nearly tumbled the whole way down, the banister her only saving grace. If he’s being honest with his memory, (and it’s very tempting not to be honest, most of the time, but Moira’s voice seems to narrate a lot of his past now and she’s not always the most complimentary or forgiving,) it was Debbie who’d eventually got the ladder, unscrewed the old bulb, screwed in a new one and placed the empty box in the bin. It had taken all of five minutes.

 

“There’s still a dent in the doorframe of the master bedroom from that time you threw the alarm clock at me.” She says it with only the slightest hint of accusation, for which he’s grateful. “And the back door still doesn’t close properly since that time you slammed it so hard it fell off.”

 

Cain sinks his chin as he contemplates this. “Er, it was _you_ who slammed that door, not me. You got cross because I was having a go about Jai.”

 

For a whole five seconds Charity looks at him, her lips pressed together. Then she swallows, “so it was your fault anyway,” her tone almost childish, a verbal stuck-out-tongue, “and it _was_ you who threw that alarm clock.”

 

He presses his own lips together, holding back the automatic argument.

 

She rolls her eyes at him, then returns to gazing at the house. “But Cain, it feels so different now. That house.”

 

He’s not sure if he wants to get into all this, dragging up the past like it matters. Though, he’s learning, it does actually matter quite a lot.

 

She seems to want to go there, anyway, and he’s not about to stop her. It’s her wedding day. “I used to think the walls would crumble, they’d shake so hard when we shouted. And sometimes, I’d spend ten minutes walking up the front path, I was that reluctant to go inside.”

 

That saddens him. He knows that the version of himself who lived in that house was a very different person to the one looking at it now.

 

“But now,” and her voice is hushed, reverent, “it feels like the safest place I’ve ever had.” He hears the tremble of emotion and looks away, slightly embarrassed. “Truly, Cain, it’s like, sometimes,” she shakes her head disbelievingly, “sometimes I forget, forget everything that has ever happened to me. I can be with her, and we can be just doing nothing, watching telly or something, and it’ll occur to me that I haven’t thought about it for hours.”

 

She sniffs and he turns her head sharply to look at her, but she’s holding herself in. Maybe she never will change all that much. Or maybe she won’t show herself to _him_.

 

“Time was it’d be every waking minute, you know? I’d still be chained to that radiator, or me dad would still be bringing down hell on earth, or I’d be in that bloody shipping container with-” she cuts herself off, gulps. He grips the wall behind him a bit tighter, thinking of his own father, bringing down his own version of hell on earth. He knows all too well how pervasive and persistent that image can be. 

 

“But,” she continues, voice a little stronger, “with her, it’s like it all just- fades away. It’s peaceful. I haven’t forgotten,” she says hurriedly, “but I can forget.”

 

He and Charity are too alike, he knows. Two flames of the same fire. Anyone who has gone through what they went through as kids, anyone who has felt the deep ache of hunger, felt the sheer, inescapable weight of utter hopelessness before even having tried a cigarette for the first time, felt the sharp end of their parents’ own anger and resentment, has that abyss of torment inside them. 

 

It took her longer than it did him to figure out how to move on, god knows she had a whole heap of different crap to move on from. But, now, she’s figuring her way out of that abyss. Or at least, figuring out that there is a life outside of it.

 

He can tell, because they never used to be able to talk like this. There’s always been an ease to their non-verbal communication that has always hurt more than helped. Even now, thirty odd years on, he knows what each of her assortment of eye rolls mean better than most. But he’s learned that sometimes you need to actually say sorry, say you’re angry, sad, hurting, actually speak it into existence. 

 

With Moira, not that he’d ever admit it to anyone else, they actually, occasionally talk about things. _Feelings_. With Charity, they’d grunt and roll their eyes right into a fight, or throw looks and tear clothes right into bed. And all the words would fall away unsaid, but the feelings would still be there, furled, tensed under the surface. Ready to come back guns blazing, twice as strong and twice as damaging next time round.

 

This, this quiet admission of feelings, of emotions, the ability to talk honestly for longer than five minutes without a raised voice, this is very new for them.

 

She sighs, takes a last, lingering drag of her cigarette then stubs it on the wall. He suspects that Chas would tell her off for doing that. “You came out here to say something to me,” she turns to look at him, eyes soft but jaw determined; she’s ready to defend herself against anything he has to say.

 

He realises now that she always used to look at him that way. Defensive.

 

She’s right, he had followed her out here to say something, but he hadn’t been really sure what it was until now, looking at her on her umpteenth wedding day. _She looks so grown up_ , he thinks. The other times, she’d been playing fancy dress. Not that he’d ever say that to her, not unless he wanted a smack in the mouth.

 

“I’m sorry that you could never say all that stuff about- Bails to me, when we were, you know- together.” She raises her eyebrows in surprise and goes to respond, but he carries on. “I realise I was never that- supportive about- what you had to do to get by. And that I kept throwing it back in your face. It wasn’t fair.” He breathes a long breath out, as if he were breathing out all the toxins that guilt had been breeding inside him.

 

She turns away again, looks back to the overgrown hedges round Tug Ghyll. “You made me feel worse about it.” Again, she’s not accusatory, simply stating facts. “You made me feel dirty and ashamed.”

 

“I know. I’m glad, for your sake, that you’ve found someone who doesn’t make you feel like that.”

 

She smiles with that rare softness at the corner of her eyes. “She’s good for me.”

 

Cain nods, slowly. “Yep, anyone who makes you less of a stroppy cow gets my approval.”

 

She punches him on the shoulder, but it’s gentle and he knows she doesn’t mean it. “You know, Cain, you’ve been far more supportive of me this last year than you ever were when we were actually together.”

 

He blows out the breath he’s been holding, raises his eyebrows. She’s right. For a thousand reasons, she’s right. “Well, you’re a lot easier to support, now,” she purses her lips, thinks, then nods her head to the side, conciliatory. “And there’s Moira,” that requires no explanation. 

 

“And-” he hangs his head briefly before looking back up, steeling himself for this gristly bit of emotional honesty, “I think- when we were together, before Moira, before Jai, I was was so afraid I was going to lose you. So I tried to hold on to you too hard, to control you.”

 

“But now, we’re friends,” he looks to her for confirmation, and he can literally see her eyes resisting the urge to roll before she decides to purse her lips in a half-smile instead, “I don’t have to cling on to you anymore. I know you don’t need me to start messing people about, you just need someone by your side.”

 

Charity’s amazement is open-mouthed, “bloody hell, Cain, did you swallow a self-help book?” He huffs angrily, but is also grateful for the opportunity to shake off the heaviness of what he’d just said.

 

She shuffles back into faint dazedness, until he hears her take in a deep breath and he prepares himself for the miserable underbelly of whatever stone she’s about to lift and force into the light, “I never said, how glad I am that you have Moira.” Surprised, he turns to look at her. Her eyebrows are furrowed as if even she can’t quite believe she’s got nice words to say about Moira Bloody Barton, but her eyes are honest, “she’s been good for you, like Vanessa’s been good for me.”

 

At that, he looks away again, nods.

 

“And I was a right cow about it, I’ve been a right cow to her at times, but I think-” she breathes out solidly “-I was lonely, and probably a bit jealous.”

 

He snorts, and she scowls at him, “not of her, you pillock, of _you_.”

 

“Of _me_? You fancy Moira?!”

 

She punches him on the shoulder again, harder this time, he hisses and grimaces, making a fuss. “Piss off, Cain. No, I was jealous that you’d found someone who really cared about you, and who made you a better person. I thought I’d found it with Jai, but…” she trails off, and he rolls his eyes, pats her knee in an attempt to be comforting.

 

“Vanessa is a thousand times better than that slime-ball,” she smiles at that, grateful, as she always is, for his defending her.

 

They fall into a comfortable silence, the wind now almost chilly, the sky cooling on their backs. The sounds of the party raging on inside still float out to them, Cain hears what he thinks is Paddy having a go at Noah for stepping on his foot, a scream from Chas about mud in the bathroom. He looks over at Charity, the reflections of the stars in her eyes and the glow of the street lamp in the curls drifting in front of her face, running her fingers tenderly over her wedding ring. 

 

There’s not a trace of that frightened, angry little girl in her right now.

 

“We’ve done good, kid,” he says quietly, and she turns to smile at him, the stars still in her eyes.

 

“Yeah, we have,” she puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes once, then slips off the wall. “Right, I’m going back in, I’m freezing my tits off out here,” voice back to its usual, rough, breezy self, but still a warmth in the corners of her eyes as she turns to leave.

 

He moves away from the wall with a hand out to stop her leaving just yet. “Wait, Charity,” she turns, face full of questions. He takes a breath, blows it back out again. “You looked really beautiful today.” 

 

She looks pleased for a split second before she balks, “fuck off, Cain, I’m not falling for that rubbish,” she holds up her left hand, waggling her ring finger, “I’m married now, didn’t you know?”

 

There’s no time to answer her back before she disappears into the pub, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to warm herself up.

 

After a second, reeling from her outburst, Cain half smiles, his nose wrinkled. He leans back against the wall, grateful for Moira and her steadiness and her patience. Sometimes he wonders if things could ever have worked out between him and Charity. Not because he still wants her, or because he thinks she still wants him, but because despite all the arguing and the hurt they caused each other, there’s always been that flash of something. A spark of recognition, maybe, of kindred spirits.

 

But then he remembers seeing Charity and Vanessa together on the day of the trial, today on their wedding day, any day, actually, and he realises that he and Charity are better off apart. She could never have looked at him that way.

 

He tips his head back and looks at the stars, thinks of Shadrach and feels full of a bitter fire for a moment. But then he sees Moira appear through the same door Charity just used, a dozing Isaac on her hip and Kyle held tightly in her free hand, a tired but happy smile on her face. 

 

And he feels the fire go out, as if the gas had been switched off.


End file.
